God of the Machine
by PlanetOfTheWeepingWillow
Summary: Matthew's always been a good kid. When he ends up in prison, however, no one is surprised. There he reunites with Gilbert who plans to show him the meaning of friendship, freedom, and victory. PruCan M for language and adult themes.
1. Poetry and Prejudice

**1.**

**Poetry and Prejudice**

Matthew scribbled notes down on his notepad, resting his chin on his palm. He was not aware of the sudden silence poked with the scraping of his pencil at first. Slowly, as he the silence grew thicker and thicker, he raised his head, frowning. Why had all the students in the hall collectively stopped? He surveyed the huge hall, where the seats descended, like a curved staircase. At the front the lecturer, Miss Bell, had her lips pursed tightly. Her large, fishlike eyes swept the classroom, dripping with distaste. The folds of her skirt brushed against the floor.

Behind her, a student teacher stared in horror. Matthew frowned. What the hell was this about? The young man began shaking his head, leaning back in the wooden chair. Miss Bell folded her hands on her lap. "Well, class, is there something you want to say?" She piped up, her voice so high it could break.

Matthew felt dazed. What had she said that he missed? He was tired, extremely so. He lacked sleep as most college students do, and possibly was malnourished. He scratched at the side of his nose. He leaned over to the student next to him. She chewed one of her thick blonde curls.

"Hey, what did she just say?" He asked gently.

The student raised her eyebrows. "Didn't you hear? She said _some people are meant to be locked away_."

Matthew licked his lips thoughtfully and nodded once. "Thanks." He leaned back to his notes. They were studying poetry about oppression. Why had she decided to voice an opinion as big as that in the middle of a class like this? Matthew sat hunched over in his desk. He already was a big guy, tall, and lanky. His shoulders were broad and his hair was mousy and curly with the texture of cotton. He resembled a lumberjack and not a math major that had no choice but to take an English credit.

The student next to him continued to chew her hair nervously. She stared at the center of the room. Miss Bell seemed to be exuding an air of disgust and excessive self-esteem. She stood slowly. "Class?" She asked again. "Why ever do you stare at me like I just offended you? I only voiced an opinion. Poetry is all about opinions, isn't it?"

Matthew was about to stand and object, but his docile nature snatched away an inclination he had. He sighed heavily.

A high, raspy voice burst in his left ear. Matthew jumped, getting a huge whiff of mint flavored gum. He looked over and found one of the other third years right next him, too close. Matthew winced and scooted away, listening to the constantly hiss in his ear.

"Can you believe that dusty bitch? She's so uptight I bet you could condense a gas in her into solid."

Matthew took another look at the young man before responding. It struck him, like a sledgehammer to the knee, that he knew this kid. He had a paper-white face and blood-red irises. His hair was a shock of snowy white, even paler than his skin, and his lips were cracked in a wild grin. This was Gilbert B., known for his insane behavior and lack of pigment in his skin.

"Well, I don't agree with what she's saying." Matthew said tensely.

"Then why don't you object? It's not hard. See, I'll do it."

Gilbert stood up without being asked and spoke in a loud voice. Matthew was tempted to cover his ears and groan. His head thundered with pain and embarrassment. He couldn't have been seen talking to someone like Gilbert. Nothing personal against Gilbert, but he wasn't exactly what a straight-A student like Matthew should be seen affiliating with, Matthew thought. He felt sick.

"Sorry, Miss Bell, but I'm pretty sure that poetry is not about forcing your opinion on others. I think it's about sharing an experience or an idea, but not saying your prejudiced bullshit that I'm fairly certain was directed against a certain group of people." Gilbert said, his palms flat against his desk.

Miss Bell looked at him as though he was a fly she thought she had killed. She pretended not to have noticed him and continued her lecture. A student at the front stood up violently, her chair jerking behind her. "Excuse me, he brought up a good point, Miss Bell."

"The opinions of juvenile delinquents don't hold much water here, dear." Miss Bell responded without breaking the lecture. Then she spilled into the rest. Her bony, manicured fingers spread against her knees again.

The student teacher shook his head and sighed loudly. Miss Bell paid him no heed. He coughed into his fist. Still, no response. He tried once again and finally Miss Bell turned coolly to him. "Yes?"

"Debate is part of language, Miss Bell, why don't you allow your students to flex those muscles?"

Miss Bell clicked her tongue, shaking her head. "There is a rhetoric class available. We are here to learn poetry and not to argue over it."

It was obvious that no one would get any further with the argument. They fell silent until the end of class. Matthew stood and shoved his notebook in his backpack, slinging it over one shoulder. He hastily tried to get out before Gilbert could get to him. He had no such luck.

Gilbert stopped just outside of the door, still grinning. "Can I talk to you for a second, Matthew?"

Matthew smiled politely. "Sure."

"Let's go somewhere a little more private."

Gilbert led him to a corner at the end of the hall, where no one could hear them. Matthew leaned against the wall. His next class wasn't for three hours. He had planned to take a nap and eat something when he got home, which was presently in his brother, Alfred's, apartment. Now it seems his plans would be changed. He offered Matthew another polite smile. "What did you want to talk about?" He said, breaking into a yawn and covering his mouth. He tugged at the red sleeves of his sweatshirt. Outside a winter rain began to spatter against the windows, turning the hall a cool gray color.

"Are you gay?"

"I beg your pardon?" Matthew asked, his cheeks flushing. The blood seemed to have drained from his knees. He felt he would fall over. He focused somewhere else, which happened to be the plaque to one of the classrooms. The numbers and letters floated. His heart thundered. Why was this strange, dangerous kid asking him this?

"I asked if you were homosexual, gay, you know?" Gilbert said, his eyebrows climbed up his forehead.

"Why do you want to know? What makes you think I am?" Matthew said in just above a whisper.

"I have nothing against it. Hell, _I _am gay. And word is you are too. I was just confirming a suspicion."

Matthew made a decision, unknowingly altering his life's course, and nodded.

"You are?"

Matthew nodded again, still red and trembling with anxiety. Gilbert patted his shoulder. On his arm were a number of bracelets that jingled softly. "Hey, don't freak out. I didn't mean to scare you."

Gilbert's voice had changed. It had melted and softened, turning from a hard metal to a mushy and warm liquid. Matthew couldn't help but feel relaxed. His heart slowed back to normal. Gilbert's hand slid off his shoulder, returning back to his side. The bracelets were mostly of string, although a few were metal and decorated with icons. He wore a black t-shirt and a pair of well-worn jeans. Matthew had pictured when word spread of how he caused mayhem in every school he went to a dirty, vulgar man who hadn't learned to grow up. Instead he was facing a well-groomed, even pleasant fellow.

And that's why when Matthew woke up in prison, the first thing that surprised him was Gilbert sitting just across from him with a smile.

* * *

_I do not own Hetalia._

_Hey, look! I decided to do another PruCan story after Bone Dry. Hopefully it'll be just as good, if not better. _


	2. What's Wrong With Me?

**2.**

**What's Wrong With Me?**

**(You Listen, Goddammit)**

"Tell me everything that's bothering you."

"Well, my throat hurts from the whore that tried to kill me, my head hurts from hitting my head this morning, and my ass hurts from hitting here for so long."

The therapist looked up at his patient, his glasses skidding down his nose. He brought up a finger to push it into place. The patient stared at him, scowling. A scar crossed his neck, matted with thick blood. His eyes were bloodshot, making it a ball of irritated red with a spot of black in the center. His hair was a tangled mess of white. The therapist looked back at his notes. The patient was no older than a college student. So, he was albino. The therapist nodded to himself.

"I see. Is there anything that you feel mad about?"

"You mean what made me go bad so that I did that crime?" Gilbert asked, leaning back. He placed his hands on the back of the seat. He wore a baggy prison uniform—no, not baggy, just too big—with a long red smear across the shoulder. Gilbert puckered his lips, chewing the inside of his gums.

"Yes," the prison therapist, prison psychologist, sniffed loudly.

"Well, I don't have a fucking clue." Gilbert explained. "I don't think I'm bad. I just think I was caught up in the wrong place at the wrong time." He leaned across the table. Chains rattled. "And even if I was fucking screwed up in the goddamn head I think you can't do a thing about it. It's hopeless. You prestigious little shithead fuck-ups, you think you can cure any goddamn thing well let me tell you." Gilbert laughed hoarsely, unsmiling. "You can't."

"Listen here, boy, stay down. I'm only trying to help." The therapist said, recoiling. Gilbert was closer now, smelling bad.

"No, no, listen to _me_. You are a _vessel_ you are a _thing_ that listens to what I say and then tries vainly to interpret it, like some fucking clueless kid trying to make sense of this world when, hell, there's no sense in the first place!"

"Boy."

"No, hold on. You know you have to listen to me, don't you?"

Gilbert had an impassive look on his face, as if he would rather be elsewhere. But his voice was hard and unrelenting. He gained momentum with each word. His fists tightened and his knuckles whitened. His eyes began to water from the sheer hatred and anger welling up in him like a balloon when air pressure is too little outside of it, ready to burst.

The therapist settled back in his chair, nodding mutely. He had nowhere to go. The room was stifling. The air conditioner had broken down the previous day, leaving them in a humid summer's chokehold. He loosened his collar, looking anywhere but at those bloody smears for eyes.

"You agree. Good, I'm glad we're on the same page. I was thinking I was on chapter seventeen and you were on the prologue." Gilbert continued, clearing his throat. "As I was saying, I don't feel bad. I feel good, actually. I met someone I've known for a while and maybe I can get laid. That whore bitch found out I didn't like the cunt she was shoving in my face and went bat-shit insane. Maybe that's why she slashed my throat, I don't know. Anyway, aside from my neck burning and my ass hurting and my ears bleeding from the bullshit that you spew from your mouth, I'm pretty goddamn dandy."

Gilbert paused. He took the tin cup from the table and took a long sip of water. He set it down, next to a pile of papers and a pen. The pen was out of his reach, in case he went mad and tried to jab it into his throat. The door behind him was unlocked. A window on the side allowed the prison guards to look in, see if there was any mayhem. Now it would just look like the therapist was incompetent. The man scowled hideously at the notion.

"I know. It is strange." Gilbert said, misinterpreting the scowl. "Dr. Jewels," he took a peak at the name card, "I want you to know that it is in fact strange. Sometimes I wake up at one in the morning and I think to myself '_now why the hell am I not in agony_'? And you know what that tiny voice in my brain says? It says _'cause I'm hell of a lot smarter than the asshole goons who run the place_."

Dr. Jewels was by no means a young man. He was fading in age. His skin was spotted with age and his jowls sagged. His hair was wispy and sticking out at the temples. His eyes were sunken under this spectacles and his body was large and soft, but unpleasantly so. Had a smarter man or woman been in his place, they would have soaked up all the words Gilbert said like sweet, juicy information. They would have taken it and helped Gilbert rather than fixed him. But Dr. Jewels was not smarter. He had gotten that job out of nepotism. Gilbert knew all this. The walls talk if you listen hard enough.

Now, the old man sagged in his chair. His heart thumped along, without endangering his life. He pried his left hand from the seat and placed it on the paper, writing down that this man was catatonic, incurable, and borderline psychotic.

Gilbert watched as his elegant hand scribbled down the note. He let out a brief shot of laughter, like a gun going off. It started Dr. Jewels. Jewels looked at him, his eyes widening. "You gave up so easily," Gilbert said, shaking his head. "You aren't a bad guy, Doctor, you're good at some things like running a family and having a great party. I heard that from an officer. But you just suck balls and ass at being a doctor."

Jewels stared at him, his lips tightening into a scar along his face. He loosened it when he noticed Gilbert had ceased speaking. "Thank you, but I believe I was given this job for a reason."

"I bet you got it from sweet talking the higher-ups into getting it. You probably had some connections. One of them a girlfriend you fucked in high school?" Gilbert said. His pink tongue darted out from his dry lips, wetting them vainly as they curled for another explosive chuckle.

The guard on the other side of the greasy window looked in. He cocked his hat and wiped his nose with his wrist. Jewels gave him a brief look, beckoning him in. Then the doctor turned to Gilbert. He laced his fingers and placed them before Gilbert. "We're done here, son. I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

Gilbert scoffed. He stood and walked out with the guard, dragging his chains because he was "dangerous".

. . .

After Gilbert a new prisoner walked in. He was tall, so much so that he felt he had to hunch his shoulders over. He shuffled into the room and sat down. He was at least a foot taller than Dr. Jewels. His eyes were docile and regretful. He bit his lip nervously. His long, spindly fingers trembled beneath the desk, stuck between his knees.

Dr. Jewels grinned with power. This man was nothing.

"Tell me, Boy, what's bothering you?"

"Um, I'm a little tired." He said, his voice drenched in a delicious Canadian accent, "Also my head kind of hurts. But I feel fine. I'm a little worried and kind of scared. This is a small prison so it's not like I have the entire criminal population staring at me." He laughed weakly.

"Yes, I see… Now, in your own words, tell me what happened."

"I would, but I don't believe I own any words personally to describe it."

"Just try your best, son."

The joke flew over his head. Matthew only sighed once. He adjusted his thin glasses.

"I went to a graduation party after college ended. I got drunk and we rode around. I don't really remember what we did, but I know we didn't hurt anybody. Next thing I know I was waking up in a cell with an old friend smiling at me. I felt okay then."

"What caused you to drink so much?"

How could anyone be this stupid? Matthew thought, cocking a thin eyebrow. "Well, we were all so excited and relieved that we can finally be on our own we just let loose."

Dr. Jewels nodded, as if he was a sage master and Matthew was his pupil. "Yes, the joys of being youthful." He placed his pen on the paper. _Youthful, seems harmless; but large, prone to violence._

Matthew pretended not to have read the comment. He hid his disgust and disbelief well. Dr. Jewels dismissed him. He walked out like a duckling toddling after its mama. He was allowed in the courtyard as someone else was sent over.

"Wish me luck boys, I get to see that fatass quack." The man said. He was a cocky, broad man with a head of complicated swirls.

"Tell him his mother was great last night." Another called after him, making a rather unfunny joke they laughed at anyway because they had nothing else to grin about.

Matthew stood by Gilbert who was smoking a smuggled cigarette in the corner of the courtyard. He raised his head slowly, offering a smoke. Matthew had never smoked in his life. He stared at the burning ember and the gray clouds pouring from it. He accepted and took a long drag before returning it.

"What'd he say to you?" Gilbert asked, leaning against a wall of hard stone.

Matthew shrugged. "He just said I was a punk."

"No he didn't." Gilbert grinned, staring at Matthew.

Matthew nodded grimly, his eyes dull. Then they flashed with laughter and a smile replaced his solemn frown. They settled on the ground. Matthew placed his hands on his knees. The cigarettes bitter taste lingering in between his teeth. He licked at it, annoyed. His lungs started to burn. Gilbert continued to smoke like a chimney.

"How long do you think we'll be here?" Matthew asked.

"I give it another month. They'll release you, they have no reason not to, and then they'll release me. I did nothing wrong."

Crowds of prisoners walked past them. Some tossed a ball around, others smuggled stolen goods. The air was damp with oncoming rain. Gilbert looked up at the sky. A bundle of gray clouds hung, inching slowly to eat up the remaining blue.

Matthew spread his legs out before him, reclining back. "It's not all that bad. I mean, once you don't think about how the cells each you up and how you lose your freedom gradually anymore."

"When we get out I'll take you on a trip you'll never forget." Gilbert said.

Matthew couldn't form a decent response, so instead he stayed quiet and stared at the sky, trying to remember what it was like to be free.

* * *

_I have a feeling this will be the wildest, grossest, nastiest, and meanest world I've ever created for a story. _


	3. La Petite Mort

**3.**

**La Petite Mort**

When it got to be too much they pressed their mouths into the dingy pillows. They spoke quietly, their breathing coming in short, quick gasps so not to wake up the other inmates. How they got away with it they did not know. It was noon. The sun burned overhead fiercely through the small windows. The others played outside, throwing leather balls or smoking cigarettes.

Matthew and Gilbert remained in the laundry room, nearly spent. Clawing at flesh, biting lips, and gorging on each other's bodies until they quivered with such bliss their grunts turned to groans and their mutterings turned to shrill exclamations.

Gilbert rolled over, sweating, and placed his arms on Matthew's back. Matthew lowered his head, tingling. The air was dusty. Dappled sunlight fell on their heads and hair, catching in their fine eyelashes and reflecting their eyes with some glow akin to hope.

The pressure grew and grew and grew until something snapped, turning the world dark and afterwards causing a pleasuring throb to ripple through their groins and stomachs. Even the lusty kisses and pained moans were no match to that patch of darkness.

That patch of death.

La Petite Mort

Whatdya say, Mattie?

The Little Death, that's what we call it.

Oh.

The darkness that swallowed them up until they shuddered violently, crazy in love and crazy with passion

The darkness that engulfed their logic and reason, crushing it into powder

The darkness

The Death

I don't want to die, Gil.

Well get used to it, we're dying one second at a time.

No, I know that, it's just…

Just what, Mattie? You can tell me. I'm 'fraid too.

Gilbert was an animal, he knew that. He was a big animal in a tiny cage. At first he revolted, against teachers, against parents, against siblings. Then he got used to being crushed under the bars, with occasionally snaps and clawing at the bars. Then he hated it again, got restless, got uncomfortable, and started to bite and tear without any method just pure fury and distress and sorrow and hopelessness. He grabbed the bars and shook them, watching as shadows flicked by his cage and laughing children pointed at the silly albino thing in the cage. Haha! Look at that, Ma, it's mad! Hey, stupid! You mad?

Hey fucker, shut the fuck up you fuck shit.

Gil, are you okay?

Gilbert looked up at Matthew, his eyes softening. He reached up and placed his lips against the other's coarse ones and they dove into the darkness again.

What did Matthew have to fear? He made a stupid mistake. He shouldn't be worrying about death because it was a long ways away. He was in prison for another month. That's okay. That's just dandy. But he didn't need to fear the Electric Chair like his brother or fear the police anymore. He was a convict but he was morally unobligated to fear. He was just Matthew, sweet, kind Matthew who was crazy in love with Gilbert and would break the moon into tiny pieces just for love since that's what he was born for.

The doors rattled against the locks. Matthew rolled off Gilbert and grabbed his clothing. They made as if they were cleaning up the room, giving the other inmates, in search of something to destroy, probably themselves, a cheeky grin.

The other inmates approached them slowly. At the front was a pimply young man with bad hair and eyes like drops of oil. Behind him was an obese, bearded man with a tattoo of a naked woman on a bicycle across one bicep. The other was small, a writer probably, with mean eyes.

"What do you want?" Matthew asked. His back throbbed. He could still feel the fullness there and the sweet tingly of Gilbert's kiss hugged his tongue.

"Nothing really," the main, youngest one said, swinging his arms at his side. "We just want a little fun."

Fight.

Fight!

FIGHT!

Gilbert hit the ground, his face bleeding against the floor and making a mask there with ovals for eyes and a smear of his right cheek. He stood up and knocked them around. Matthew lingered, trying to be docile, but he was hit in the stomach soon enough.

The darkness came again, out of joy, out of the freedom of scuffing it up a little. When the officials arrived Gilbert shoved Matthew to the ground, his hand around his neck. He leaned closer so only Matthew could hear his whisper.

"Pretend like you were caught up in a storm. You have no right to be here."

Matthew went limp because Gilbert cuffed his head as a warning. The officials took Matthew out and gave him a lighter punishment than the others.

As Gilbert went along, head bowed, with them to the padded room where the insane go, he blew Matthew a kiss and winked. Matthew stared forlornly.

A little death.

Eternity.


End file.
